


Bloggers, Baby!

by Estrella3791



Series: Ineffable Husbands AU Week 2020 [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blogging, Crowley has a crush, Ineffable Husbands AU Week 2020, Online Dating, Tindr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26696338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estrella3791/pseuds/Estrella3791
Summary: Crowley's a blogger, and he may or may not be developing a crush on his commenters. But he's not really -Oh, what's this? Angel1941 is on Tinder??
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Husbands AU Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942321
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	Bloggers, Baby!

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting. Sorry if you've read it before.  
> Welcome if you haven't!

One of Crowley’s favourite things about being a full-time blogger is that he can sleep whenever he wants to for however long he wants. For example, it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and he’s only just rolling out of bed and no one is judging him. What a good life.

He yawns, stretches, finds some water and drinks it. He stalks past his plants with a hypocritical “don’t you dare slack off.” He fetches his laptop from the living room and takes it with him into the kitchen, where he sets it on the table and then rummages in the fridge for some eggs.

Eggs are timeless. Eggs are always appropriate to eat. Crowley loves eggs.

Once he’s beaten and scrambled them to his satisfaction, he sits down at the table and opens his laptop.

20,000 hits. Not bad, he thinks, grinning to himself.

It helps that he used to be a network-employed journalist. He was good at it, too, at asking questions, at wheedling until an interviewee caved and told him the whole truth. But it felt restricting, being assigned things, only writing what his bosses handed him, so once his name got big enough he left the network and started a blog.

And somehow, it’s providing him with enough to live on.

He scrolls through the comments section, telling himself that he’s not looking for anyone in particular and knowing full well it’s a lie. He’s just about given hope when there’s a ping, a notification, and he clicks on the little pop-up, hoping that maybe…

And it is.

**Angel1941: This was absolutely lovely, my dear. I have been so enjoying the chronicles of Frances the Fern. I hope that she starts behaving for you. Have a good week!**

Crowley doesn’t bother hiding the massive grin that spread over his face the second he saw the user name. Angel, as he’s been calling the commenter in his head, started commenting on his posts about four months ago, and has been taking up progressively more space in Crowley’s mind.

He gets up from the table, grinning like a loon, and sets about making coffee while reflecting on how he should respond. It’s not like he can just say what he’s thinking. (What he’s thinking is something along the lines of “when did I develop a crush on you? Why did I develop a crush on you? We’ve never met each other!” Not the sort of stuff you can just post online.) He’s got to be clever, subtle, allude to the fact that Angel brings him joy without stating it explicitly.

He can do it.

*

Except he can’t. After a couple of hours, he gives up and replies in some little blurb about how Frances will shape up if she knows what’s best for her, and it’s good to hear that someone’s reading. Not even close to the witty, heartfelt content he was hoping for.

Discouraged, he goes searching for his phone and then pulls up a dating app when he finds it. Nothing to get your mind off of silly internet crushes like the cathartic left-right-left of Tinder. (Crowley is just enough of a public figure that sometimes people accuse him of catfishing, which is always fun. He enjoys catering to their suspicions, sending increasingly wacky and grammatically incorrect messages, until they report him and he gets to pull the ‘surprise! It’s really me!’ card.)

Crowley starts swiping, starting to warm to his work, and then a profile slides across his screen and his heart skips a beat.

**Angel1941.**

There’s the angel, beaming up at him, wearing a truly bizarre tartan bowtie and a suit that looks like it belongs in the 1800s. And he’s using the same username. What an old-fashioned... But he’s smiling, he’s happy, he’s beautiful, and Crowley can feel himself melting into the couch cushions.

He can’t swipe right. Angel won’t like him, not in real life. They’ll talk for a little bit and then Angel will, wisely, decide that Crowley is too much and he’d rather not have him in his life. Crowley won’t get comments that make him Snoopy dance internally. Crowley won’t have anything to look forward to.

(Crowley might just be enough. Angel might just like him. All his dreams might just come true.)

Not probable, but the possibility will be much more concrete than if he doesn’t take the risk.

Well, shucks, he thinks, and swipes right.

**It’s a match!** the screen congratulates him, and Crowley’s insides flop around like fish out of water.

Well, that’s done now, he tells himself, and sets his phone down resolving not to look at it again unless he gets a notification.

He picks it up a few minutes later.

*

After agonizing nearly the entire afternoon over whether he should send a message, Crowley’s phone pings from across the kitchen and he dives for it, nearly toppling his glass of wine as he does so.

**Angel1941: Well, hello there! Perhaps I can hear about Frances in real-time updates. :)**

Crowley sags against the counter and clutches his phone to his chest, smiling hard enough to hurt his face.

*

Angel - Aziraphale, actually, it turns out, but habits are hard to break - is a brilliant conversationalist, and seems to somehow enjoy Crowley’s pathetic attempts at responding in kind. Crowley doesn’t know why he seems to be so tongue-tied (as it were) when he’s speaking to Aziraphale - he’s a writer, for goodness’ sake - but he’s grateful that Aziraphale doesn’t mind.

As far as he can tell, anyway.

They chat off and on for nearly two months, and Aziraphale comments on every blog post and then gives in-depth reviews to Crowley later, and Crowley is having the time of his life. He gives Aziraphale his number and they switch from Tinder to texting.

Aziraphale starts calling him ‘dear.’ (He nearly chokes to death on his coffee the first time.)

He learns that Aziraphale works at the local library, that he loves sushi and hates hot dogs, that he goes to St. James’s every weekend to feed the ducks (frozen peas and things like that, of course, because bread is bad for them. Did you know that? Crowley hadn’t, but had been glad to find out.) and take a stroll, that he wants to go to Paris for the crepes.

( **All the way to Paris just for crepes, angel, really?**

**I’d do a good many things for crepes, dear. You ought to know that by now.** )

After two months, Aziraphale sends him a message that nearly sends him into cardiac arrest.

**Angel: I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to say.**

Crowley physically winces and sets about trying to brace himself for something like ‘you’re fun to talk to, but I’ve had about all I can’ or ‘I’ve had enough of you and your nonsense’ or ‘this was all a cruel joke and I’ve never actually cared about you.’ (He may be, possibly, a little dramatic.)

**Crowley: ask away**

Crowley tosses his phone onto the couch and paces his flat restlessly. He really, really, really doesn’t want to stop talking to Aziraphale. He’s gotten more than a little attached, and he doesn’t - he can’t -

His phone buzzes and he lunges for it.

**Angel: Very well.**

**Crowley, it has been an absolute joy texting with you, but**

Crowley’s heart sinks. He hasn’t opened the message. He doesn’t really want to. He looks at his lock screen until it goes black, and then he finds that he wants to know. (Needs to know, even.)

**Angel: Very well.**

**Crowley, it has been an absolute joy texting with you, but I must confess that I’d dearly love to see your face and speak with you in person.**

**Would you consider joining me for dinner sometime this week? If you’re free, of course.**

**I’d very much like to take you to the Ritz, if you’d be amenable.**

Crowley laughs. He laughs and jumps up and down like an excited toddler and clutches his phone to his chest and holds it at arms’ length and chucks it at the couch again.

“Yes!” he cries to his empty apartment, “yes!”

After he’s celebrated enough, he picks up his phone again.

**Crowley: I’d be amenable.**

**Angel: Oh, good! Shall we say Sunday? 9 pm?**

**Crowley: It’s a date.**


End file.
